Showing posts with label Bell Buckle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bell Buckle. Show all posts

Sunday, June 20, 2021

What battlefields? I'm in Bell Buckle for that massive Moon Pie

A selfie at the "World's Largest Moon Pie." Is this a great country or what?

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When Mrs. B. broke the news we would attend the annual RC Cola MoonPie Festival in Bell Buckle, Tenn., I got kind of excited because it might be an opportunity to con persuade her to visit the nearby Hoover Gap and Liberty Gap battlefields with me. Oh my, so much Civil War history out in the wilds 45 miles east of Nashville.
She's smiling in this photo, but I think I
made Mrs. B nervous with my "World's Largest
 Moon Pie" obsession.


But we got sucked in at the festival by a bunch of cloggers, an 11-minute parade, unusual tattoos, the crowning of the MoonPie Festival Kings and Queen, strangers attempting to balance RC Cola cans on their heads, the obligatory water balloon-tossing contest and the piece de resistance, the unveiling of the "World's Largest Moon Pie." So my Civil War battlefields con job got scrapped.

Ugh.

For you uninitiated, a Moon Pie consists of a graham cracker cookie, a marshmallow center and a coating of either chocolate, vanilla or who knows what else. The small Moon Pie I consumed had kind of a cardboardy taste, and judging by the way MoonPie festival attendees smooshed up and tossed the things in the Moon Pie throwing contest, I think I'm on solid ground there.

The festival in Moon Pie Country is part country fair, part homage to the greatness of Moon Pies and part comedy, with a steaming hunk of capitalism tossed in. As my sister-in-law pulled her SUV into the grass parking lot (10 bucks per vehicle), my brother-in-law asked about the MoonPie parade.

"You're in it," said Parking Lot Dude, who had just started his shift 20 minutes earlier. 

My brother-in-law and I chuckled like any other RC Cola MoonPie Festival rookies would.

Thankfully, Bell Buckle — or "Belt Buckle" or "Buckle Belt," as Mrs. B calls it — is not the "Spandex Capital of Tennessee," because on the muggy afternoon we saw that material deployed in unusual ways, many of which will never in the history of ever be unseen.

Ms. Moon Pie marches in the Moon Pie Festival parade near a giant RC Cola can.

Before the parade, I scouted the ground, sort of like John Buford at Gettysburg: 
Would the Rocky Valley Cloggers approach from the east or west? 

Will a Shriner launch a Moon Pie at my noggin'? 

Will Ms.Moon Pie smile at me? 

Is Moon Pie one or two words? Is it really capitalized? 

Remember: People came from as far as Utah, the Caribbean and even a foreign country (California) for this. Naturally, being a social media maven, I shot cloggers parade video. And, naturally, I shot them in slo-mo on my new iPhone. Perhaps that's why it only has 32 views on Tweeter. 

Anywho, after the parade, we re-deployed with our folding chairs near hay bales and a small stage — the main theater of action, so to speak. 

“People just come here to be happy,” a festival spokeswoman announced to the crowd about an hour into our experience.

"Sorry, ma'am," I muttered under my breath, "but I'm just here to see that damn giant Moon Pie."

The WLMP was to be unveiled on stage hours later, so I tapped into my inner Jeb Stuart (minus the plumed feather hat thingie and the horse) and aimlessly wandered about to gather intel. 

Thankfully, this vicious dog didn't burst 
through the mesh to go for my jugular.
Nervous and sweaty, I shot a selfie with Ms. Moon Pie. Then I shot a pic of a white dog named Sparkle, Pooky, or Sprinkle — I forgot which, the fog of war and all. Looking like she wanted to go for my jugular, the vicious animal growled from behind the mesh of some pink-and-black baby carriage-like contraption.

Decisions, decisions: Should I buy an official Moon Pie T-shirt ($15) or the genuine antique Coca-Cola tray ($150)? WWMBD: What would Mrs. B do? (I got the shirt.) 

Where can I get one of those Liberty Gap minie balls? Damn, was that Bell Buckle cop really drinking rum out of that watermelon? Do I really need the $25 bottle of balsamic vinaigrette with a hint of barebecue flavor?

At a stand where a guy offered to draw your portrait in 15 minutes, I examined one of the "These Colors Won't Run" illustrations. Hmmm, I seem to remember a whole lot of retreating by that side during the war. (Kudos to Ms. Smiley for teaching us Critical Retreat Theory in fourth grade at Julia Ward Howe Elementary!) 

Seconds seemed like minutes. Minutes dragged on like hours. Mercifully, the unveiling of the "World's Largest Moon Pie" loomed. Before the festival, we debated how large the WLMP would be. The size of a tractor tire? As large as a poker table top? Would it weigh — yikes — 1,000 pounds or more?

The "World's Largest Moon Pie" is escorted to the main stage by security.

Escorted by security — you can't make this stuff up — locals slowly brought the WLMP to the stage atop a golf cart-like vehicle. It was a quasi-religious experience, with security holding down the sides of a giant box — it reminded me of those wacky divine evangelical preachers laying their hands on Trump in the Oval Office. Anyhow, the sweaty crowd parted, making way for the WLMP's journey to its final destination. (Well, second-to-last destination, because people were going to eat the thing.) 

Scurrying to get an up-close look, I dodged several other excited WLMP fans, telling one woman I was the "Official Moon Pie Photographer." Feeling silly, I elbowed what probably was the real official World's Largest Moon Pie photog out of the way to get extreme close-ups. ("Did you plant your face in the pie?" Daughter B later texted. Uh, no.) 

Unable to locate me, Mrs. B, my sister-in-law and brother-in-law briefly expressed concern. And then ... 

"Look, there's John photographing the giant Moon Pie!" one of them said while pointing to me standing on a small step ladder mere feet from the WLMP. I'm told Mrs. B laughed, nervously. 

This year's WLMP was slathered with a
lemon-flavored coating, according to sources. 
I was shooting a video (below) of the massive Moon Pie when a woman said the crazy man must get off the stage.

Uh-oh.

Now about the WLMP, well, it was somewhat of a letdown. It didn't look all that massive — it was more like 20 large, mushed-together pizzas topped with a ton of cheese. (By the way, a slathering of a yellow, lemon-flavored coating covered the giant pie, according to sources.) I wondered how much cardboard they used to make the thing.  

Of course, my "exclusive" WLMP photos and video were anything but. A MoonPie Festival spokeswoman soon announced that anyone who wanted to take a picture of the WLMP should line up stage left. Hundreds did, including the WLMP "semi-official photographer." Ground rules: Each photographer had one second. It was nuts. 

"You must hurry," the MoonPie Festival spokeswoman said, "because we don't want the pie to melt."

HEY, LADY, I'M AN ARTIST!!! 

America...

Is this a great country or what?


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Saturday, June 08, 2019

Moon pies & Patrick Cleburne: A Tennessee Civil War adventure

Connie Smith holds a copy of a late-19th century or early-20th century image of Confederate veterans 
from Tennessee. Her great-great grandfather, who served under Nathan Bedford Forrest, appears
 directly in front of the flag. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)
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Overshadowed by Union victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, William Rosecrans' Tullahoma Campaign in summer 1863 gets stiff-armed in the history books. In a series of small battles east of Nashville and Murfreesboro, the 42-year-old Army of the Cumberland commander ejected Rebels from Middle Tennessee. "Brilliant," The New York Times called Rosecrans' maneuverings.

How did Bell Buckle gets its name? An account pasted on the 
window of a counter at a Bell Buckle antiques store/cafe 
offers possibilities.
Channel your inner David McCullough and let these Tullahoma Campaign place names roll off your tongue:

Hoover’s Gap.

Liberty Gap.

Duck River.

Wartrace.

Bell Buckle.

Ah, Bell Buckle, population about 500 and hometown of former "Hee Haw" star Molly Bee. (Use the Google machine.) To find my way there, I rely on finely honed backwoods instincts and lean on knowledge gleaned from  10 years at West Virginia University. Along the way, I make a left at a small church with a sign out front that reads (humorously): "Prayer. The Best Wireless Connection."

On June 24-26, 1863, at Liberty Gap, about 3 1/2 miles from Bell Buckle, Confederates under Army of Tennessee commander Braxton Bragg clashed with Federals under Rosecrans. Chased from the gap, the Rebels retreated to Tullahoma.

About three weeks earlier, Bell Buckle was site of a Grand Review of nearly the entire Army of Tennessee. Among the attendees was British army Colonel Arthur Freemantle, who sadly witnessed the very worst of America: a speech by a politician from Arkansas.

"Of vulgar appearance," the Britisher recalled, he delivered a "long and uninteresting political oration, and ended by announcing himself as a candidate for re-election. This speech seemed to me (and to others) particularly ill-timed, out of place, and ridiculous, addressed as it was to soldiers in front of the enemy. But this was one of the results of universal suffrage."

Boxes of moon pies in the popular Bell Buckle Cafe in Bell Buckle, Tenn.
Present-day Bell Buckle apparently is a bivouac for Moon Pies -- graham cracker cookies with a marshmallow center dipped in either chocolate, vanilla or who knows what else. They sell the things everywhere in town. In mid-June, the Chamber of Commerce holds its 25th annual Moon Pie Festival, which includes a Moon Pie parade, the crowning of a Moon Pie king and queen and the unveiling of the world's largest Moon Pie. At the popular Bell Buckle Cafe, boxes of the tasty treats -- in regular and mini size --  are stacked just steps from the front door. The highlight of my restaurant visit, however, isn't Moon Pies. Instead it's a sign near the cashier: "Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig."

One of the great mysteries of life, right up there with why Abraham Lincoln named Ambrose Burnside commander of the Army of the Potomac, is how Bell Buckle got its name. A local account speculates it's because Indians "carved a bell and a buckle on a tree as a warning to settlers about their cows." Let's go with that.

But this trip isn't about cows, bells, buckles or Moon Pies. My aim is to explore this area's rich Civil War history, so I drive down two-lane Bell Buckle Road toward Wartrace. In the winter of 1863, one of the greatest commanders of the war made his headquarters there.

At the Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery you'll find re-enacting gear mixed in with some patriotism.
On the road to Wartrace, population slightly north of Bell Buckle, a sign for a Civil War shop compels me to hit the brakes and stop. In a nondescript, gray building near an old barn, Connie Smith and her husband Jerry, a former blacksmith, operate Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery. The couple sells everything from replica brogans to officers' uniforms.

The  ghost of James F. Anthony can get a little bit horsey at the
 Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery in Wartrace, Tenn.
The Smiths receive orders from foreign lands as far away as Russia, Denmark, Australia and California. They have supplied actors in movies The Free State of Jones, The Last Confederate and others. A vintage baseball team from Franklin, Tenn., wears shirts purchased at Smith's shop. Connie even has outfitted the daughters of country music legend Loretta Lynn.

Clearly, Blockade Runner is nirvana for the re-enactor.

It also may be haunted.

"This place," Connie tells me in a hushed tone, "is spooked."

Smith has discovered books moved overnight and felt a strange presence in the business she and her husband have run since 1993. The culprit, she believes, may be the ghost of James F. Anthony of the 28th Tennessee Cavalry, Company G. She points to a horse bit, once owned by Anthony, in a display case. Making me slightly wary of my surroundings, she tells a brief story about the Confederate, who's buried in Hollywood Cemetery in Wartrace. Both my kids were born in Texas, I tell her, so no Rebel ghost will intimidate me. I remain strong.

Displayed in a Sutlery case, a relic of the December 1864
 Battle of Nashville. Connie Smith collects period Civil War dresses.
 Her husband Jerry collects Civil War artifacts.
Connie also has a more direct connection to the war: Her great-great grandfather William Daniel Chrisman served in the 4th Tennessee Cavalry under Nathan Bedford Forrest. Chrisman, who enlisted at 16, fought at Shiloh, Stones River, Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge. In November 1864, he was captured before the Battle of Franklin, a clash that resulted in nearly 6,300 Confederate casualties. In an image of Confederate veterans, Smith proudly points to her ancestor near the back row.

After the war, Chrisman was active in Confederate veterans' organizations and attended the last Civil War reunion at Gettysburg in 1938. He died at age 92 in 1939, the last surviving Confederate veteran in Williamson County, Tenn.

"He told my momma stories of the Battle of Franklin," Smith says. "She loved to hear his stories."

Once at stage coach stop and inn, the circa-1852 Chockley Tavern is now a private residence. 
After the Battle of Stones River,  Patrick Cleburne MAY have visited here in 1863. 
A marker near the Chockley Inn explains the Battle of Liberty Gap, a Tullahoma Campaign clash.
I finally pull into Wartrace, home of the Tennessee Walking Horse National Museum and final resting place of Strolling Jim, a champion show breed horse. "Jim died in 1957 in the pasture where he spent his last years," reads the historical sign in front of the Walking Horse Hotel, which contains the Strolling Jim Restaurant. Naturally, the hotel may be haunted. Does this have anything to do with James F. Anthony?

A vintage Texaco pump in Wartrace, Tenn.
Before I inspect my objective, I tool around town, stopping to admire a vintage Texaco gas pump. I wave to a gentleman wearing a gray Alabama T-shirt. "Roll Tide," I say after rolling down the window. He eyes me warily, like I'm some kind of outsider. Perhaps it's my Connecticut license plate.

Directly across from train tracks and a large, red caboose stands a two-story, circa-1852 building that needs a little TLC. Wooden chairs and debris clutter the front-porch area. A maroon shirt hangs from a hook. "Welcome," reads a small sign near the front door of the private residence. This is the place.

Really?

In early 1863, after the Battle of Stones River, Confederate General Patrick Cleburne, the “Stonewall of the West,” may have met with fellow officers at the Chockley Tavern, a stage coach stop and inn. He had a headquarters elsewhere in the small town, but the directionally challenged are never able to find it. Killed at Franklin, Cleburne was once buried among oaks and magnolias in a beautiful church cemetery near Columbia, Tenn. (In 1870, his remains were removed to his adopted state of Arkansas.)

After a brief brush with history, I head east, about a mile outside town. A historical sign there denotes the site of the long-gone Beechwood Plantation house, where Southern sympathizers lavishly entertained Confederate officers during the war, Cleburne probably among them. Confederate General William Hardee made his headquarters at Beechwood during the Tullahoma Campaign, and his troops camped in the surrounding fields, still largely open today. On the high ground nearby, private property, the remains of Confederate trenches may be found.

Before I depart Wartrace, I visit Hollywood Cemetery, hoping to find the grave of one James Anthony. Like our gray ghost, the marker proves elusive.

Tullahoma Campaign dead from battles at Beech Grove and Hoover's Gap are buried
 in Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, atop a knoll near Interstate 24.
A marker for the 18th Indiana Battery in Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery. 
The drone of traffic from nearby Interstate 24 fails to spoil the final stop on a Middle Tennessee Civil War adventure. In neat rows atop a knoll, unknown Confederates from Tullahoma Campaign battles at Beech Grove and Hoover's Gap rest in a small cemetery. In 1866, their remains were collected from isolated areas nearby. Did burial crews get them all?

At the end of Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, a large slab of gray granite -- the Nathan Bedford Forrest Farewell Order Memorial, erected in 1954 -- is inscribed with words from the general's address to his troops in Alabama following his surrender:
"Civil War, such as you have passed, naturally engenders feelings of animosity, hatred and revenge. It is our duty to divest ourselves of all such feelings and, so far as it is in our power to do so, to cultivate friendly feelings toward those with whom we have so long contested and heretofore so widely but honestly differed. Neighborhood feuds, personal animosities and private differences should be blotted out and when you return home a manly straightforward course of conduct will secure you the respect even of your enemies."
 After the war, Forrest became Grand Wizard in the Ku Klux Klan.

    PANORAMA: Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, where unknowns rest in a former                        pioneer graveyard. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)


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SOURCES


-- The New York Times, July 1, 1863.

-- Freemantle, Arthur James Lyon, Three Months In The Southern States: April-June, 1863, Published by John Bradburn, New York, 1864.